To Fume or Not to Fume

Bad enough to be flying home to a monsoon from gentle Italy but then to have the guy behind me hijack my electrical outlet because he needed two: grrrrr!  Okay, so I didn’t actually know planes had electrical outlets until the flight attendant tapped me on the shoulder and asked if the guy could use the one under my seat. So now, just when I was finding out I could get some real work done on this eight-hour flight back to Rainytown here she was on her hands and knees under my seat, plugging this guy into MY outlet.“Actually, I was going to do a little work myself,” I said in a high strained voice.“Oh!  Well we can find you another seat!” she sang cheerily.I felt my jaw tighten. If she were a dog she’d have known I was about to bite, but no. Oblivious, she went on:  “There’s a sleeping man 10 rows back,” she chirped. “You could sit beside him!” and back she dragged me to invade the privacy of a poor slumped thing who suddenly woke to find not one by two women fishing around under his knees.When at last we found the outlet of course it didn’t work. “Whoops! Well that takes care of that!” she chirped. So back to my seat I went, past the skinny hipster.“Hey so maybe we can share as the trip goes on?”  I said.But he only looked at me blankly, leaving me the choice of whether to fume or not to fume as we traveled like Pilgrims of Old over the whole of the icy Atlantic.I chose the second option and just read my book content to hope that  maybe I'd go right into Heaven when I die, with no stops or hiccups along the way.